RUDIMENTS, pt. 347
Making Cars
In the seminary, about 1963
I guess, I remember one of
the things among the jazz
record collection that Mike
Bartholomew kept, was an
odd comedy album. This
was all knew to me, the
whole deal - jazz, Coltrane,
Davis, Monk, and the rest.
I had grown up with my
mother's likes of Perry Como,
maybe, and Ferrante and
Teicher, at best. Learning
these little incidentals of jazz,
in a half-darkened lounge of a
seminary student center, for
teen boys was weird indeed.
Anyway, so it went. But in
that collection was this album
by a tall, skinny, hip black
guy, spinning a basketball
in his index finger. he wore
regular, crummy,1950's type
basketball sweats, no pretense.
Nothing like today's ensemble
sports outfits or any of that
crap. I listened to it over and
over, as best I could - tales
meant to be observational and
witty and funny, about things
like the twisty hills and street
of San Francisco and cars
traveling them, the reactions of
people to ordinary events, stories
of poor, black mothers in run-down
kitchens, kids, neighbors, and
friends. Everything got made
fun of in a sort of tender way.
It was unique, not angry at all,
soft and easy. His name was
Bill Cosby. New to me. To my
14 he was, perhaps 25, 28 at
most. I think, anyway.
-
Since that time - early, primitive,
dawning - for me, a million things
have passed under the bridge of
life. And for him too, poor sucker.
But let me go on. In the seminary,
one of the things we (I) did was
take a lot of walks. There were
sandy, pine-barrens pathways
and small roads out through all
the surrounding areas : A few small
shacks here and there, along the
hardtop some nicer homes at one
spot, a garbage heap, a swamp,
some industrial stuff and a local
municipal truck yard. There was
also a 'retreat' house out in those
woods. As seminary kids we
never had any dealings with that,
but church people would come
and stay for a week or weekends
at a time - regular people, women,
pious men, and clerics. They prayed
and meditated, ate and holy-mingled.
I think some of our priests and
brothers ministered there too. It
was the 'Pius X Retreat House.'
No big deal. I guess they had
their own food and kitchen staff,
unless they used ours, less than
a mile away. I don't know about
any of that. There were also a few
torrid lover's lanes type spots out
beyond that, apparently kept busy
by local kids and their heavy
tire-tread cars.
-
I would walk, alone or with one or
two others sometimes, and think
about the Bill Cosby album, going
over the routines, what I'd heard,
how he did it, what he presented.
The record, I forgot to mention,
was called 'Why Is There Air?'
A cool title, and it referenced the
spinning basketball on his finger
tip, which was had spinning while
he wore one of those trademark
'Bill Cosby' faces. In the photo
montage on the album sleeve
you could see that much of his
comedy depended on his sort of
elastic-face - odd grimaces, the
almost-smirk, of a wise-guy smile,
the flabbergasted look of 'I give
up,' as well. It was fun. His words
introduced me to another world -
all that city and urban stuff, the
smattering of attitude and plain old
rudeness of black people suffering,
the snark of the fat and skinny
kids of his neighborhood talk.
As presented, he was a sort of
ringleader, as a child in this
comic set-up, to a group of
half -genius quizzical kids
going through a dirty,
slugging life.
-
Eventually, yes, I grew and left
all that. My adventures told here
make mention of times before
and after this, and most of it
was forgotten. Without being
involved, over time, I would
see and hear of Bill Cosby
hitting his fame and fortune,
TV shows and specials and
the comedy circuit and, even,
cartoons with all those kids.
Fat Albert and all that, I think
it was. And then it was I found
a connection I wanted! In 1961,
and the years right around that,
there was Bill Cosby, hitting
the same coffeehouse, folk-music,
poetry recitations, jazz-readings,
pass the hat, scenes as Harry
Belafonte, Tiny Tim, Patrick
Sky, Bob Dylan, Peter Stookey,
Mark Spoelstra, Dave Van
Ronk the Greenbriar Boys,
Woody Allen, Dick Gregory,
Flip Wilson, and a bunch
of others. Bill Cosby - and
I could sense this from the
seminary album here in
question - had a good way
about him, a presence that
carried; what it was. Here's
a first-hand account of a
special moment : 'Suave
and good-looking and
sure of himself. He made
his observations about the
trials of getting through
life ridiculously funny
almost because of his
poised and self-assured
manner. He and Bob [Dylan]
bonded in ambition early on,
but Cosby wasn't around long.
He was not headed anywhere
but up. He was not a downtown,
bohemian outsider; he was a
cool dude making his way fast.
One afternoon, Bobby and I
were lounging at an outdoor
cafe and Cosby came into
view driving a red convertible.
He waved to us as he headed
towards the West Side Highway
and beyond to fame and fortune.'
-
Isn't it funny how abusive
America can be - all that
abstemious adulation and
pent-up anxiety and emptiness
amounting to nothing but
idol worship. It was, after
all ignorant America that
raised him to the Huxtable
status, years later, he'd
achieved - the nation's
Negro funny-uncle. From
which they eventually
threw him down too.
Sexual politics aside;
females fawned for this
stuff, and Bill stuck it in.
And too bad about all
the rest - on either side.
America is, truly, a
know-nothing land, and
one made of fools. They
blindly build up their
naked idols, and then
cast them down, as
demons, as soon as
they can.
No comments:
Post a Comment